Jessamine had been home a fortnight, and the despondency that had descended on her the morning after her debacle with Mr. St. Leger refused to lift.
She had arrived home after a whirl of packing and explaining to poor, confused Lady Bess her sudden departure for home. But Jessamine felt as if hounds were on her heels. She refused to admit it, but deep down she was fleeing from seeing Mr. Marfleet again. He would feel duty bound to inquire after her, but she couldn’t bear to have his censorious, pitying gaze on her once again.
He would make a good vicar, the way he beheld a sinner with that sad gaze—just like her father. A good swat of a switch would be preferable to that quiet, compassionate look, she’d often thought as a child.
She’d finally managed to convince Lady Bess that she was not out of her mind. “I must return home. I feel so terribly homesick,” she said, ending on a half-smothered sob. The sob had been real enough, but not for the reason she claimed—though a part of her longed for her parents’ embrace and the quietness of the parsonage.
But it had convinced Lady Bess. The older lady had patted her hands. “There, there, dearie, I understand. But must you leave today?”
“Yes—yes—I must. Mrs. Phillips has lent me her traveling coach, and I do not want to impose on her kindness.”
“Very well. Let me help you pack.”
“Betsy will help me, ma’am. You mustn’t trouble yourself.”
“Well, I shall order a nice luncheon basket packed for you then.”
The last thing Jessamine wanted was food, but she realized in that second how empty her stomach felt. It would be better to nibble something in the privacy of her coach than stop at a coaching inn. “You are too kind, Lady Bess.”
“Nonsense. I’ve enjoyed having you, my dear.” The lady’s eyes filled with tears. “I shall miss you.”
The two hugged, and Jessamine felt remorse for leaving her so suddenly. First Megan and now her. “I shall miss you awfully, as well.” She couldn’t promise to visit her soon, because she never wanted to return to London. She would write to Megan and ask if she would visit Lady Bess occasionally.
“There, there,” the old lady said, withdrawing gently. “You mustn’t cry. It’s been my pleasure to have you.”
In less than an hour, Jessamine had packed and was ready to leave London. She leaned out the coach window to wave to Lady Bess and Betsy, who stood at the door, and gave a last look at the neighborhood she and Megan had come to know so well.
Hours later, when the coach finally pulled up at the door of the parsonage in the dark, the sight of her childhood home brought tears to her eyes.
Her parents had no idea she was coming home. The last letter she’d written was a cheerful account of her town activities—just as every letter had been. She had not expressed any of her disillusions about society, since they had sacrificed so much to give her a season in London.
The footman opened the coach door and let down the step. Taking his hand, she stepped down, her legs feeling stiff from sitting so many hours.
“Will you have me knock on the door?” the man asked her in the dark.
She glanced toward the lantern at the door and the evidence of light between the curtains. Her father always left the entrance lit to welcome callers at any time of the day or night. She felt a burst of gratitude for this now, when in the past it had inconvenienced the family many times when someone in trouble had come knocking at the door well into the night.
She straightened her shoulders. “No, thank you.”
With a nod, he turned away and went about getting her trunk. She opened the low wooden gate, leaving it wide for the footman, and proceeded up the flagstones.
What would her parents say? What would she tell them? She’d thought much of this during the tedious journey, and she still was not sure. Megan would not betray her. Lady Bess—she would only express her regret at Jessamine’s sudden departure.
Jessamine pushed open the door. She heard a voice coming from the parlor. Her father reading to her mother. Hopefully any visitors they’d had had already departed for the night.
She left the door open and walked slowly down the carpeted wooden planked floor. There was a louder bustle behind her as the footman jostled the trunk through the doorway, loud enough to alert her parents.
She hastened her steps and entered the parlor.
They were already standing. Her mother gasped, bringing her hands to her breast, and could move no farther.
“My dear, what has happened?” Her father reacted more quickly, increasing his pace until his concerned face looked into hers, his hands grasping her arms.
Her lower lip trembled as she opened her mouth to speak. Then he took her in his arms, hugging her close, not demanding any words. Her mother joined him, putting an arm around Jessamine’s back and patting it.
“There, there, dear, you are home.”
She regained her wits enough to motion behind her. “The coachman—my trunk—”
Her father pushed himself away from her gently, giving her to her mother’s arms. “I’ll see to him.”
“Come, dear, what is this?” Her mother steered her toward an armchair by the fire. “Why didn’t you write us to let us know you were coming home?”
She lifted a tear-streaked face to her mother. “I didn’t know until yesterday—last night.” She fumbled for a handkerchief in the pocket of her pelisse.
Her father came back into the parlor, closing the door softly behind him. “There, the coach is off to the public house, and you are safely home.” He rubbed his hands, approaching them. “Well, I see you are in one piece, the Lord be praised, so physical harm has not precipitated your return. I don’t think Lady Beasinger would have turned you out of her house.” His gray eyes twinkled down at her. “So, I surmise it is a matter of the heart that has brought you home.”
She clutched the handkerchief to her lips. “I—it is worse . . .”
He lifted a dark brown eyebrow. Her father was still a handsome man at fifty, though his lean cheeks were craggy and there were laugh lines between his nose and mouth and at the corners of his eyes. “Worse? Mary, I think this calls for strong tea.”
Her mother rose from where she had been bending over Jessamine. “Of course. The water is simmering nicely here on the hob,” she said with a smile to Jessamine. “I shall just prepare a fresh pot.”
“It’s not necessary.” Her parents only employed a couple of servants, villagers who went home in the evenings, so they were used to fending for themselves a good part of the time.
“Nonsense,” her father said. “We can all use some refreshment while you compose yourself to tell us what calamity has befallen you. My throat is parched from an hour’s reading.” He picked up the book from the small table by his chair. “Frances Burney’s last novel, The Wanderer. I was going to mail it to you once we finished. I think as a woman you will find it of particular interest.”
As if realizing he was forgetting the matter at hand, he cleared his throat. “Yes, well, let us have our tea and find out what brings you to our doorstep at this hour of the night.”
Her father’s commonplaces had given her time to dry her eyes. She recognized how he put so many parishioners at ease with his chatty, absentminded manner. But she knew he was neither. All the while he would be observing the person who’d come to him in trouble while seeming to be distracted by trivial things.
She blew her nose a final time and straightened in her chair, receiving the cup of hot tea from her mother. “Thank you. I am thirsty,” she admitted.
She set it down on the lace doily on the table at her side to let it cool a bit. When her parents were settled in their chairs, drawn up close to her, she folded her hands on her lap and looked at each in turn, knowing she had to be fully candid with them. She felt their love encompassing her and knew even if what she had to say was tenfold worse than it was, they would still regard her with the warm, sympathetic, concerned look in their eyes.
“I have been very foolish,” she began in a low tone. Her throat tightened.
“We have all been so at one time or another in our lives,” her father said quietly as her mother murmured agreement.
Jessamine moistened her lips. “I allowed myself to be flattered by a . . . young gentleman—someone who appeared to be a gentleman.” At the intake of breath on her mother’s part, she knew she must get through this quickly before they conjectured the worst.
She kneaded her hands as she began to tell them about meeting Mr. St. Leger. She didn’t pause except to draw long breaths, until she came to leaving the ball. She looked at each parent in anguish. Her mother clutched her hands to the shawl around her shoulders, her father looked serene, but his eyes watched her keenly.
Unlike Mr. Marfleet, who dressed in regular clothes, her father wore a narrow white clerical collar. She quickly averted her thoughts from Mr. Marfleet, the way she had all day each time he intruded into them.
Her narrative ended, and by this time her handkerchief was damp. “I don’t remember anything else . . . except when I awoke and found myself in a strange place . . . weighed down by someone atop me.”
At another gasp from her mother, she hurried on. “I was fully clothed, but he was trying to kiss me—” She gulped in some air. “I came to my senses enough to try to push him away, but he only laughed and continued teasing me as if . . . as if what he was doing was a normal . . . thing.”
“What happened, dear?” her father asked.
Her eyes met his. He no longer looked serene. His eyebrows had drawn together, forming a line between them, his gaze razor sharp.
“There was a pounding on the door, and the next thing I knew, Mr. Marfleet and Captain Forrester burst into the room. Mr. Marfleet began to fight Mr. St. Leger. Then Captain Forrester came to me and helped me up and asked me if I was hurt.”
Her mother sat back, visibly calmer. Before she could speak, her father said, “Thank the good Lord for these gentlemen. Who, pray, are they?”
Relieved now that the worst was over, she took a sip of tea, debating how to describe the two gentlemen. She would have no trouble telling them about the captain, but she feared what they might think when she described her acquaintance with Mr. Marfleet.
She was finished with love. First had been her unrequited love for Rees Phillips, and then she’d been flattered by the attentions of a handsome but unscrupulous rake. The last thing she wanted was for her parents to get false ideas in their heads about Mr. Marfleet.
“They must be more than a pair of gentlemen you’ve danced a few dances with if they rode out to this inn to rescue you,” her father said.
She swallowed, glancing briefly at her father before looking as quickly away. “They are very worthy gentlemen. Megan made Captain Forrester’s acquaintance only a week or so ago through her new sister-in-law, Céline Phillips, Rees’s wife.”
She paused, then resumed before her parents would think it was painful for her to mention Rees’s name or that of his bride. “Captain Forrester is an old acquaintance of Rees’s from his days in the navy. I don’t recall him—I was too young, but perhaps you might have met him.”
Her gaze went from her mother to her father, and she was thankful that her tone sounded normal, as if she were only inquiring something about an old neighbor of theirs.
Her mother narrowed her eyes behind her spectacles then shook her head. Her father looked thoughtful, rubbing a forefinger over his chin. “As I recall, Rees brought home some sailor friends on occasion for brief visits, but I don’t remember any individuals. It was quite some time ago.”
“Yes. Well, Captain Forrester has come home for good. He is retiring from the navy now that the war is over. He seems a most worthy gentleman.” She hesitated, unsure whether to add the rest, then decided to go ahead. “He seems quite taken with Megan—and she with him.”
“How lovely,” her mother said, bringing her hands together.
Glad to lighten part of her mother’s load from all she’d told her this evening, Jessamine plowed on. “Yes, I am happy for her.”
“And Mr. Marfleet? Does he have an eye on Megan too?” her father asked in that tone of dry wit she recognized so well.
She rubbed the palms of her hands over her skirt. “He is a . . . a vicar,” she answered carefully, “recently returned from a couple of years as a missionary in India.”
She risked a look at her father, and to her dismay but not surprise, he looked more interested than he had when she had mentioned Megan and Captain Forrester. “Yes. He . . . he would likely still be there but for the fact that he contracted a fever and almost died. I don’t believe he will return. His family needs him home.” She briefly described his family.
When she finished telling them about Mr. Marfleet, her mother’s eyes were wide. “Son of a baronet? That is an exalted knight to your rescue.”
“I am more thankful for the perseverance he showed in seeking you. I should like to thank him personally,” her father said.
Jessamine’s heart sank. If her father were to write Mr. Marfleet, he might construe it as an attempt on her part to rekindle their friendship.
“I should say so!” her mother exclaimed. “We must express our gratitude.”
“I’m sure he does not expect any communication from us,” Jessamine began, rubbing her arms in growing agitation.
“If he is the kind of man he appears from your narrative, then I don’t imagine he does expect any thanks. But that is no reason not to convey it.”
“I have no address for him,” she told her father in a low voice.
“Did you have an opportunity to see him before you left London—to thank him?” her mother asked.
She flushed and looked at her handkerchief. “No. He and Captain Forrester were to call today . . . to see how I fared. It was very late when they brought me home—that is, to Mrs. Phillips’s.”
Now came the most difficult part of all.
“When I finally woke up, it was just before dawn. My mind finally felt clear and when . . . when I remembered everything I had done, I couldn’t face anyone, much less these two gentlemen.” She brought the handkerchief up to her mouth. “I was so ashamed.”
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” her mother said. “You did right to come home. You’ll be safe here. I worried so having you in London. Such a wicked city.”
Jessamine looked at her father again, awaiting his verdict.
“Much as I am glad you have come back, I cannot help but think you did so precipitously. It was more as if you were running away than that you were returning home to your family.”
The mantel clock ticked as Jessamine found herself unable to look away from her father’s knowing eyes. “Yes, sir,” she whispered before dropping her gaze. “I just couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in their eyes. They were both such upstanding gentlemen. I had done wrong to . . . to flirt with Mr. St. Leger.”
“You are not a young lady to flirt. Did London society go so quickly to your head, my dear?” her father asked gently.
She shook her head, still looking down.
“Carl . . .” her mother began in a remonstrative tone.
“No, it’s all right, Mama. Papa has a right to ask me, as do you.” She spoke slowly, her gaze meeting theirs. “I flirted with Mr. St. Leger because . . .” Her voice threatened to break once more. “I wanted to know that I was attractive to a gentleman. I was so hurt . . . and angry at Rees.”
Amidst her mother’s protest, she bowed her head once more into her damp handkerchief. “I wanted to prove I could be like Céline—Rees’s wife—the kind of woman that men give up everything for.”
“And what did you discover?” her father asked gently.
She studied the pattern on her gown, unable to meet her father’s gaze. Her thoughts went to Mr. Marfleet, a worthy man whose regard she had spurned in an effort to prove something so foolish. “That I have no wish to be the kind of woman I thought Céline was. She has had her own burdens to bear.” Jessamine inhaled deeply. “I have no wish to be anyone but who the Lord fashioned me to be.”
“Then I would say your time in London has been of value,” her father said.
She stared into the fire, glad for the peace and quiet that reigned in their sitting room. The old Jessamine would never have wished to be anyone but herself. Or, was the person she’d become in London the real Jessamine? Selfish, vindictive, caring only about her hurt and pride?
Silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
Her parents allowed her to cry silently, her mother approaching and hugging her, as she murmured endearments.
When she felt spent, her father said, “Let us pray for you, Jessamine, and then perhaps you should go up to your room and get some sleep. Things always appear better in the morning.”
He approached her chair and laid a hand on her shoulder. He gave her a soft smile, but there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. She knew he had forgiven her, and her load felt lightened. But her own sadness and disappointment in herself was not alleviated.
He took a hand in his and her mother took her other one. They bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Her father’s prayer was one of comfort. It was as if he knew exactly what she needed and was confident the Lord would provide it for her.
He asked the Lord to heal her wound and wash away her shame and guilt and show her that her sins and disgrace were taken away by the shame Jesus bore on the cross.
Then his prayer turned to Mr. Marfleet and Captain Forrester. Her father asked for a blessing upon them for all they’d done for her. He ended with, “Whatever sentiments compelled Mr. Marfleet not to rest until he had found my daughter, I pray, Lord, that You will restore them to him if they have been shaken by my daughter’s disgrace. Prove him and what is in his heart so that he may be able to forgive Jessamine’s conduct, her errors—as well as the perfidy of the man who took advantage of her naiveté and innocence.”
With a final squeeze of her hand, her father ended his prayer and then opened his eyes and smiled down at her. “Don’t forget, God’s grace is sufficient for you.”
“Now, off to bed with you.”
She obeyed him, hugging and kissing her parents good night. She felt much lighter in her spirit as she walked up the stairs to her old room, but the sadness remained.
Her disappointment in herself was a burden she would have to carry. Time would ease it, but in the meantime, she must live with the person she had proved herself to be.
Lancelot and his sister arrived at Kendicott Park several hours after departing London. They had hardly spoken on the journey, each one preoccupied by their own thoughts.
The sky had already deepened to an inky hue although the western horizon still showed a band of lighter blue where the sun had recently set.
Tired and dusty, Lancelot turned to help Delawney descend the carriage. Together, they hurried up the wide, shallow steps of their ancestral home.
The door was opened immediately by a footman, who greeted them, then held the door open wide for them.
“How is Harold?”
A shadow crossed the young footman’s face. “I do not know, sir. He is in his room. I believe his wife and your mother are at his side. Your father wanted to know as soon as you arrived. He is in his study at the moment.”
“Thank you.” Lancelot divested himself of his hat and greatcoat then hurried up the wide, curving staircase, Delawney at his heels. After a knock on the study door, he entered at his father’s bidding.
“Lancelot, Delawney, thank God!”
“Hello, Father. How is he?” Lancelot asked at once.
Their father briefly kissed Delawney on the cheek before gripping Lancelot’s arm and replying, “Not good.”
“What is it?” Delawney spoke up. She had not even bothered to remove her hat and pelisse. “Your note told us nothing. How did he fall ill?”
“He was visiting the Langdons at Rossmore—in Kent, you know—and contracted what he thought was a catarrh. He came home to recuperate. In a matter of days it had turned into the whooping cough. We’ve called in the best physicians, but he has only gotten worse. That’s when I wrote you.” His father shook his head. “It looks grave . . . grave indeed.”
“May we see him?” Lancelot asked.
“Yes, pray don’t delay. Your mother is with him now.”
Lancelot hesitated. “How are she and Rosamunde holding up?”
“Rosamunde only arrived the day before yesterday. She is shocked at his appearance. Your mother has hardly left your brother’s side.”
Without another word, he and Delawney left the library and made their way down one wing of the house to his brother’s room. With a soft knock, he opened the door and held it open for Delawney to precede him.
The curtains were drawn, and the room had the stuffy, medicinal smell of a sickroom. His mother looked up from where she sat near the bed. A lamp was turned down, giving her enough light to sew by but keeping the bed in shadow.
A maid carrying a basket of dirty linen looked at them in surprise, dipped her head in acknowledgment, and hurried past them.
“Hello, Mother,” he said softly, bending down and kissing her on the cheek.
She rose and grasped their arms. “Thank God you’ve come.”
Delawney gathered her in an embrace as Lancelot glanced over at his brother’s sleeping form. His face looked pale, his eyes sunken, his golden hair lank, though combed neatly away from his forehead. Dear Lord, touch his body and bring Your healing, Lancelot prayed, shocked at his brother’s appearance.
“He’s resting quietly now, but he is exhausted from the coughing.” She shook her head, her eyes watering. “It comes on him and won’t stop. I don’t know how his body can support it much longer though he is so big and strong.” She brought her handkerchief up to her nose and sniffed. “But they rack his body so it seems his ribs will crack and . . . and that he’ll . . . suffocate.”
Lancelot put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “He’s strong as you say. I’m sure he’ll get better.” He refused to acknowledge the possibility of anything else.
“You should have summoned us sooner,” Delawney whispered at her mother’s other side.
“We didn’t know it would come to this. It happened so quickly from one day to the next.” She shook her head, bringing the handkerchief to the corner of her eye. “How can a man, so healthy and hale one day, be brought so low?” She started to cry quietly.
“There, Mother, you are tired,” Lancelot murmured against her hair. “You probably haven’t slept. Why don’t you go and lie down a little and we shall sit with him awhile?”
Urging her little by little, he led her to the door. “Father said Rosamunde had arrived. How is she?”
Her mother made a moue of distaste. “She has been to see Harold but is lying down now.” She looked away from Lancelot. “They have been . . . estranged for the past few years, as you probably know.”
He nodded sadly. Having been away, he knew little of Harold’s private life, but the fact that they seemed to live primarily apart had not demonstrated a close-knit bond between the two.
Theirs was not the kind of marriage he envisioned for himself. He remembered when his brother had married. Both their parents had been the ones primarily involved in arranging the union of the two illustrious families.
When Lancelot had questioned his brother about his feelings for his bride-to-be, Harold had shrugged and laughed. “Love is not for those in our realm—at least not for the firstborn,” he added with a knowing look. “It’s not to say I cannot enjoy my life after I’m married. All I need concern myself with my future wife is begetting an heir, and then we may go our merry ways. I’ve nothing against Rosamunde. She’s comely enough. That should guarantee fair progeny. Who knows, perhaps we’ll end up falling in love after we’re wed.”
Lancelot gazed at his brother’s still figure now. Had they ever fallen in love?
“Come, Mother,” he urged, focusing on his mother once more, “why don’t you rest for a bit? I’ll sit with Harold.”
He and Delawney finally persuaded her to leave. He closed the door and faced his sister. Did he look as sober as she?
“Let’s pray for him,” she said.
He nodded and drew closer to the bed. His tall, hearty brother looked dwarfed in it. Lancelot had a sudden, gut-wrenching premonition that his brother would not survive. As soon as the thought came to him, he squelched it with the thoroughness he would an impure or faithless thought.
He bowed his head and began, “Heavenly Father, we beseech You for my brother, Harold. Please heal his body, his spirit, his mind.” Lancelot never forgot his brother’s waywardness and knew his spiritual well-being was as critical as his physical. He continued to pray for a few moments, then lifted his head with a final “amen,” which was echoed by his sister.
He reached out and touched her arm. “Why don’t you settle in and let me sit with him a while? When you have rested, you can relieve me.”
She debated a moment, her gaze going to Harold, but finally nodded. “Very well, but call me if . . . if . . .”
He nodded so she didn’t have to finish the thought.
When she had left the room, he sat down in the armchair his mother had vacated. He felt tired but not sleepy. Glad to see a Bible on the table beside him, he took it up and opened to the satin bookmark between its pages.
It was placed in the book of Psalms. His gaze skimmed the thirty-fourth psalm, the psalm of promises. Had his mother been reading it? Neither of his parents were pious, only attending church when they were in residence here as an example to the villagers.
I will bless the LORD at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth. . . .
I sought the LORD, and he heard me, and delivered me from all my fears . . .
This poor man cried, and the LORD heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles . . .
His brother stirred. “Who’s there?” he asked in a raspy whisper.
“’Tis I, Lancelot,” he replied in a soft tone.
A ghost of a smile graced Harold’s bloodless lips. “’Bout time.”
“Don’t try to speak. Just know I’m here, old man, and I shall be praying for your speedy recovery,” Lancelot said in a light tone. Internally, he was shocked at his brother’s ashen complexion and weakened state. He was a shadow of the way he’d seen Harold last—hearty, confident, full of vibrant life.
“Do that.” His brother’s hoarse words made him start.
He leaned forward and squeezed his hand. “I will.” He bowed his head. “Dear God, I pray for Your mercy and grace for my brother. Bring healing to his body.” He continued praying, hardly aware of the words, interweaving Scriptures with his petitions. “Amen,” he ended softly.
His brother silently echoed his word. “What . . . d’you think?”
Lancelot covered one of his brother’s hands, which lay atop the coverlet. “I think you need to rest. Don’t exert yourself. Just know I’m here.”
His brother lapsed into sleep for a time. But not an hour had passed when he began to cough. He hunched over, his hand covering his mouth.
Lancelot grasped him and helped him sit up against the pillows.
His body shook with each cough. Putrid matter spewed out. Lancelot grabbed a handkerchief from a pile at his bedside.
He prayed silently as his brother’s body was battered by the coughing fit.
A serious-faced woman came into the room, whom Lancelot took to be a nurse.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir.” She nudged him aside and held a glass of water to Harold’s lips when there was a moment of respite.
He had only taken a swallow when another fit began.
She set the glass down and held his shoulders. “Hand me another handkerchief, if you please.”
Lancelot obeyed her immediately.
“There is little you can do right now,” she told him over her shoulder. “Your mother tells me you are just returned from London. If you care to freshen up after your journey, I shall be here. You may return when he is quieter.”
“Yes.” He moved away from the bed reluctantly. But he wanted to settle in and change out of his traveling clothes. “I shall return in a little while.”
“Very good, sir.”
Lancelot stood a moment longer, staring at his brother. Sadness engulfed him.